


Out of Ambit

by HSavinien



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ankh-Morpork, Ankh-Morpork City Watch, Crossover, Fish out of Water, Gen, Magical Accidents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 11:43:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9489647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HSavinien/pseuds/HSavinien
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley got a bit lost on their way to tea.  Luckily, the stalwart officers of the Watch are there to help.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cutebunny](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=cutebunny).



> Written for the Good Omens Holiday Exchange. Beta thanks to Pasiphile.

“Well, that hasn't happened in a while,” the blond woman in the uniform observed. She was wearing a helmet and had her hands on her hips and clearly very little patience for anomalies. Unfortunately, the street she was standing on was nothing like the one Aziraphale and Crowley had been walking down a moment ago.

Aziraphale coughed and rubbed sulphur out of his eyes to see her better. “I shouldn't think it'd ever happened before,” he grumbled. “It's never happened to me before.” On closer inspection, he saw that the uniformed woman was muscular and, he noted, rather sharper in the teeth than was typical.

Crowley got up, dusting off her trousers. “Old hat to me, unfortunately.” She looked around. The buildings were old-fashioned and a bit grimy, the streets cobbled, and some sort of trash-picker was making their way along with a barrow, out of which poked the mangy remains of an unidentifiable dead animal. “Oh, wonderful. Are we in Switzerland? The manky part of Switzerland? Does Switzerland have manky bits? It looks like London did four hundred years ago. Especially the sewage.”

“Crowley! Not in front of the mortal,” Aziraphale snapped.

“She just saw us appear in a puff of smoke and didn't seem surprised and I'm not entirely sure she is, actually.” Crowley offered a wave. “Crowley. This is Aziraphale. I mean you no particular harm at this point in time. You are?”

“Captain Angua von Uberwald, Ankh-Morpork City Watch,” she said, tapping the copper badge on the leather collar around her throat. “Mortal, technically; human, no. Which branch of immortal are you two, then?” She pulled out a notebook and pencil. A few other people in the street slowed, gawking in what was probably intended to be a surreptitious fashion.

“Err,” Aziraphale said, trying to pitch his voice so that she could hear and the onlookers couldn't. “Before we get into that, would you mind giving a little geography lesson? I'm not sure which rules apply.”

Angua nodded. “Ah, that kind of situation. If it helps. We're in the city-state of Ankh-Morpork, which sits between the Circle Sea and the Sto Plains and is one of the major powers on the Disc. Which is the world,” she added, correctly interpreting the blank looks that got her. “Which is round and flat? Sits atop four elephants, who stand on the back of the star-turtle A'Tuin, who swims through space?”

“Oh, it's one of those worlds,” Aziraphale said. “Bother. I suppose it doesn't hurt, then. I'm an angel, she's a demon. Not a dangerous one!”

“Well, not without reason,” Crowley amended.

She hmmed. “Which god?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Angel, you said. Which god?”

“Er. Adonai? YHWH?”

The officer’s ears twitched at the angelic pronunciation, but she shrugged. “Doesn't ring a bell. What kind of specialties?”

“...All of them?” Aziraphale managed, rattled.

“Oh, an over-achiever. Well, try not to attract the attention of any priests while you're visiting. They're competitive and some of the gods like to show off, especially around newcomers.” She scribbled in her notebook, her elbow coincidentally meeting the sternum of a busybody who was getting a little too personal. “Purpose of visit?”

“Complete accident,” Crowley said. “We were meant to be getting lunch.”

“Planned length of stay?”

“As long as it takes to figure out how to go home,” Aziraphale said. “I don't suppose you have any ideas in that direction.”

“I do actually. General promise to do as little harm to the city as possible while here and not add to my commander's gray hairs?”

They both nodded and she snapped her notebook shut. “Well, you probably aren't easy to kill, so I'll just suggest you avoid the Shades. Be aware that we have a Thieves Guild who take prepayments if you prefer not to worry about their attentions while you're here. If you eat, please note that troll cuisine features minerals poisonous to the human digestive system and dwarfs make a mean rat curry. If you suddenly feel the need to explode, open the way to eldritch dimensions, or take up mime, kindly do it outside the walls. Do not poke the dragons, they do regularly explode and it's cruel to trigger it. We are a multi-species, multi-cultural, and multi-vital society, so be warned that while humans are the majority, they are far from the only citizens and the Watch does not look kindly on those who make a fuss over that.”

Aziraphale just stared at her, feeling a little shaky, but Crowley nodded and offered the officer a salute. “Got it. Now, you mentioned an idea about getting us home?”

“Oh yes,” Captain Angua said. “If you can’t make it on your own, for the best chance of local help you'll need to visit the University. But that won't do you any good 'til Wednesday, as they're in the middle of exams right now.”

“And today is?”

“Ah, of course. Monday. Which is followed by Tuesday and then, usually, Wednesday.”

“Usually?”

“Magic, mistress demon. There are occasional hiccups, as you may have noticed.” She waved a hand, encompassing herself, them, and their surroundings. A few kids had started a game down the street, kicking what was hopefully a ball or can off the wall. Humans in various shades of pinks, browns, and golds (plus a few who looked unusually greyish) went about their business, less interested now that Aziraphale and Crowley had shown no signs of doing anything entertaining, like burst into flame or be arrested by the captain. Shorter people, several in metal helmets, moved along with the humans. Nothing outwardly magical seemed to be imminent.

“And the people at the University?” Crowley asked.

“Wizards, of course.” She shook her head. “Which means you'll need all the luck you can get.” Then she paused. “I don't suppose either of you can speak Orangutan?”

Crowley stared at her. “I’ve never tried, so I have no idea.”

“If you can manage it, the Librarian will be your best bet. He's the most useful person in there. He's an orangutan, been one for years.”

Aziraphale's head felt more swimmy than it ought to, considering he only looked human and had no business getting human reactions. There was also, to add insult to unexpected transdimensional travel, a crawling persistent itch down his back. “Well, a library will be helpful, at least.”

Crowley sighed. “Is there some sort of tea shop and some place to get a map around here? I think we need a restorative and a plan. Or wine, if that's on offer.”

Captain Angua looked up from tucking away her notebook. “And you have money on you that's acceptable currency for someplace you've never heard of and didn't mean to visit?” Her tone of voice had gone icily ironic in a way that would have done the Metatron proud.

“Er.”

“No fairy gold here, nor magicking people into thinking you've paid them when you haven't.”

“No no, of course not.” Crowley waved a hand and made a credible effort not to look shifty. “I just wasn't thinking. Angel, have you got anything useful on you? All I've got are my sunglasses and clothes.”

Aziraphale muttered and patted his pockets. He pulled off his jumper and shook it out vigourously, dislodging a cloud of sulphuric dust. “No. I've only got a receipt book from the shop and a few biros.”

Captain Angua sighed. “You are a sad pair. All right, I’m bored and there’s nothing happening anyway. Might as well do my partner proud and provide some Ankh-Morpork hospitality.1 Come on down to the station; we can at least spare a couple of mugs of terrible, strong tea.”

She set out at a brisk walk, spinning a truncheon in one hand as she walked and nodding to passersby. Aziraphale followed behind her, glancing around and trying not to gawk. The city looked like many cities in western Europe – or bits of them, over several centuries, all mashed together. Half-timbered buildings abutted brick and wooden terrace houses, each painted with mathematical precision up to the very edge of their respective owners' property. More flats overlooked shops. There were a few places selling used household goods and clothing, a tinker, a baker, a curry shop, and a dry goods store. The occasional gargoyle perched in the gutters at odd intervals that made more architectural sense after Crowley elbowed Aziraphale and pointed at one moving creakily along a roof after a pigeon.

The people too were more diverse than the angel was used to. After all, London didn't usually see large bipedal masses of stone wandering the streets (“Troll,” Captain Angua said), or shambling mounds of what seemed to be garbage, pushing barrows full of more refuse (“Gnoll. They keep the place tidy...ish.”). The dwarfs carrying their shopping were unremarkable in contrast, and the spindly, large-eyed, pale creature (“Goblin.”) could almost have fit in to the London crowds after the goth clubs closed. The humans looked like...humans, in all the varieties that Aziraphale had ever seen. Adults did their shopping or chatted or worked. Youths slouched against walls or ran errands. One young woman trotted by them at a brisk pace carrying a pouch with a winged hat emblazoned on it, pausing only to stuff envelopes into letterboxes. Children played and fought and shied stones at the pigeons pecking and cooing in the streets.

They turned a corner to a larger road that led to a bridge. It was picturesque enough, with four enormous statues facing downriver toward what was probably the sea. The statues depicted hippopotamuses, which was not an animal frequently memorialized in any statuary that Aziraphale had seen since their sojourn to Egypt. They appeared a bit more amiable than the average Ta-weret statue, but then New York managed to make lions seem pleasant in statue form. Perhaps the further one was away from something in the wild the easier it became to see them as friendly.

Angua was looking back at them, an eyebrow raised. “You know, I think I believe you're some sort of magical beings.”

“Divine,” Aziraphale corrected, just as Crowley said, “Infernal.”

Aziraphale coughed.

Crowley sighed and picked up the trailing topic of conversation. “Why's that?”

“Well, it's either that or you're both afflicted with anosmia. No one new to the city ever crosses the Ankh without mentioning the smell.”

The angel and demon looked at each other and sniffed deliberately, remembering that that was usually a sense that bodies used.

“Guuuagh!” Crowley planted her nose in the crook of one elbow.

“Oh, that's foul,” Aziraphale said, and suggested to his body that smelling was overrated. He peered over the parapet of the bridge. Though the smell wasn't quite the same, the river looked like a massive, festering cesspool, partially crusted over, with...things dotting the surface that he didn't want to even begin to identify.

“Ah, there were are.” Captain Angua chuckled. “Ankh-Morpork civil-” She stopped, her entire body coming alert, and turned toward the Dopplering patter of something coming up on them at speed from one of the alleyways.

A scrambling, caterwauling urchin careened off Crowley's shins before fetching up at the officer's feet. “Cap'n Angua!” the creature shouted between gasps. “Mam says - come quick - there's been - a murder done!”

Her mouth went tight and she glanced quickly between the two visitors and the child. “I'll be there directly. Can you show these two to the Watch House at Pseudopolis Yard? They're to be got there safely and without detours.”

“You know my mam? You don't want showing where to go?”

“Mrs. Nancyball-Figgis, brother was in the Watch before he died? I can find her.” The captain waved them after the young person and sprinted off down the alley, head high, taking in great breaths of air through her nose.

Aziraphale and the child eyed each other dubiously. Crowley rubbed her shin.

“Are you arrested?” The tone of voice indicated that this was a matter of only mild interest, not concern.

“Not yet,” Crowley said. “You?”

“Nah.” The child extracted a grubby sweet from one pocket, inspected it, picked lint off, and started sucking on it. Then without further comment, set off down the street.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, who shrugged and followed.

“So, high magical influence here. Captain Angua seems to be the offspring of some of it herself,” Crowley remarked conversationally.

“How are you so calm about this?” Aziraphale hissed. “We're lost who-knows-how-far from home, surrounded by strangers, and with no idea how to get back apart from talking to some dodgy wizards. I doubt they're sleight-of-hand magicians with good reputations! I don't know about here, but back home that usually means consorting with unsavoury types and blood sacrifices!”

“Nah, that's priests,” the child called back. “Blood sacrifices is priests. Wizards just does the messing with books and runes and staffs and stuff.”

Aziraphale winced and decided not to think about that.

“In case you forgot, I'm the unsavoury type the ones back home were usually dealing with and they were all incompetent moaners with grudges and weird fantasy lives,” Crowley said. “We'll see if these ones are any use or not.” She clapped Aziraphale on the shoulder. “And if they like books so much, maybe you'll have an opportunity to make friends.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Well, we can't see them yet anyway.”

“This is it,” the urchin announced. “G'wan in so I can say I saw you all the way here.”

They looked up. There was a painted sign over the door that declared that this was, in fact, Pseudopolis Yard, and a blue-painted lamp out front. Crowley shrugged and marched in. Aziraphale trailed after, nodding their goodbye to the child.

There was a troll at the desk inside, who looked up as they entered. “Good day, citizens,” the troll said carefully, as if following a mental script. “I am Sergeant Detritus. What can I help you wit' today?”

Trolls were very large close up and this one seemed to be an exemplar of his species. His crags were firm and well defined, some lichen spotted him here and there, and he was wearing a breastplate and helmet on the same lines (though on a much larger scale) as the captain's. They seemed quite superfluous, really, but Aziraphale was hardly going to suggest as much.

“Er,” Aziraphale said. “We're a bit lost and a Captain Angua was bringing us here to have a cup of tea-”

“Because we're pathetic sods and she felt sorry for us,” Crowley put in, sotto voce.

“-But then she was called away to a murder and sent us on ahead. And so here...we are...” Aziraphale trailed off.

The sergeant regarded them contemplatively. “Okay,” he said. “So's you know, it is a bad idea to lie about Captain Angua. She gets very cross. You do not want to make her cross. You clear on dat?”

“Crystal,” Crowley assured him. “Absolutely.”

Sergeant Detritus grinned. It was a very shiny grin and almost as alarming as Captain Angua's. “Right.” He turned and bellowed, “Constable Fiddyment!”

A young, dark-skinned human Watch officer poked a head around the corner. “Here, Sarge. I was on my tea-break, though.”

“Dat's fine. Hop dese two along and give 'em a cuppa.”

“Oh?” Constable Fiddyment perked back up. “Yes, Sarge! Come on, you two.”

The Watch House canteen was full of the debris of many busy people with slap-dash ideas about hygiene. A sugar bowl sat in a little snowy pile of missed spoonfuls, the kettle had not been scrubbed for several years judging from the layers of patina built up on it, and a tower of biscuit packets leaned haphazardly out of the top of the bin. A motley array of Watch officers of various genders, species, and colours looked up briefly from conversations or the desperate scribbling of people trying to fill out paperwork due twenty minutes ago.

“All right, fellows,” Constable Fiddyment said. “The milk's gone off, but there's sugar. Spare mugs are over by the sink; I'd suggest giving them a wipe before using them.” Duty done, he went back to an empty seat at one table and retrieved his own pencil, licked it thoughtfully, and stared at the form in front of him.

Crowley shrugged and took over, rinsing two mugs out and – eyeing the dish towel dubiously – wiping the outsides off on her trousers. She passed one over.

Aziraphale poured. The liquid that came out of it was definitely cleaner than that of the river. No lumps rose to the top and the rainbow patina was only a suggestion on the black surface, but it was clearly the kind of tea that only exists in a few places. Police stations, hospitals, truck stops, and social work offices (across all the multiverses where tea or coffee are drunk) share the same kind of always-simmering kettle. The beverage inside is always dark, overbrewed, and caffeinated enough to induce heart-failure in the unwary.

The angel stared into the cup, shrugged in resignation, and filled up anyway, then offered the kettle to Crowley. Crowley sloshed a bit into her mug, sipped, and winced.

“Well, it's better than nothing,” Aziraphale said. “I don't know about you, but warm caffeine sounds nice about now.” He loaded a few spoons of sugar into his cup.

“It's been an odd day,” Crowley admitted. “Come on, there's room to sit over in the corner out of everyone's way.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Crowley sipped one more time, grimaced at her cup, and miracled both their drinks into something a little closer to palatable. Aziraphale let it pass. It had been a trying day and bad tea was just the icing on the biscuit (which there weren't any of, as they seemed to have been finished off moments before their arrival).

“So. That captain said we need to visit a university, hm?” Crowley said. “That sounds more your purview than mine. Want me to reconnoiter while you deal with business there?”

Aziraphale stared at her, a cold wave of horror tingling in his extremities. “And split up? Certainly not! That was the worst part of the last time.”

“Worse than being yelled at by the Metatron?” Crowley teased. “Worse than your bookshop burning?”

“Ye- n- almos-...” Aziraphale drank a large swig of nearly potable tea, but didn’t see any good way out of it. “Yes, actually,” he admitted.

Crowley colored slightly. “Well, all right, if you're going to get _emotional_ about it.”

Luckily, they were interrupted by the return of Captain Angua, with a be-ribboned dwarf in tow. The ribbons were nice, but very noticeable, as bows seemed to have been distributed randomly throughout her beard.

“Goodness, solved it already?” Aziraphale asked.

The captain sighed. “Someday, we will manage to convince the entire populace of Ankh-Morpork to define the word 'murder' in the same way. As it is, yes, I have solved the murder of Mrs. Nancyball-Figgis' budgerigar by the neighbour's cat. The neighbours will replace the bird and pay her a small sum for the heartache and inconvenience. The glamourous world of policing.” She spread her hands in a 'tah-dah'. “All right, this is Sergeant Cheri Littlebottom. Cheri, these are the people stranded from another universe; Aziraphale's the one in the tartan jumper and Crowley's the swank one,” she informed her sergeant. Turning to them, she added, “Sergeant Littlebottom's head of Forensics and I've decided you're weird enough to fall under her purview.” And with that, the captain headed off, fielding three questions from other officers as she went.

“Pleasure,” the dwarf said, waving.

“'Weird' enough?” Aziraphale asked.

“I don't use magic, if that's a worry. Just science,” Sergeant Littlebottom said cheerfully.

“Nnno, that wasn't the main concern,” Crowley put in, “but thanks. Look, I'm sick of being here already. Is there any way we can get in to see the librarian before Wednesday? I had an appointment for tomorrow and my plants are due for some attention.”

“The gates will be locked until exams are out, I'm afraid. There's no rule against people visiting during that time, I think, but they want to keep the students in.”

“Would they mind awfully if we flew in, then?” Aziraphale asked, throwing caution to the winds. “Since we're not pretending to be humans anyway,” he added, as Crowley looked at him in surprise.

“Oh.” The sergeant scratched her beard. “I...imagine not?”

“Well, then. Crowley, have you finished your tea? Yes? Good.” Aziraphale stood and bustled off, buzzing with the impetus of doing _something_ besides hanging around being lost. He was vaguely aware of the others following in his wake as led the way back out of the Watch House and onto the street.

“Now, which way to the University, please? And will we need you along for introductions?”

“That way,” the dwarf answered, panting up behind him, then called, “Sorry, sir!” back at a human they'd gone past on the way out. “And, yes, probably! I think it'd be a good idea to have someone along they might recognise in case they get tetchy about the flying.”

“Oh?”

“The Archchancellor is very keen with a crossbow, for one thing,” Sergeant Littlebottom said, catching up with them at the first cross-street.

“Ah,” Crowley mused. “Yes, I can see how that might be a concern.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Aziraphale grouched. “You got discorporated that day too. At least the opposite side's crossbows were supposed to be trying to kill me. You got trampled by your own horse.”

“Umm,” the dwarf said under her breath, then added, “left up ahead, then.”

Aziraphale snipped at Crowley (more out of habit than anything else) and Crowley prodded back. At this point, Aziraphale didn’t even bother paying more than cursory attention to the argument. It wasn’t the words that mattered, or the subject, even, just the back and forth pattern between them, rehashing old stories and minor grievances, then breaking off to inquire about a mutual acquaintance of a few decades ago. It was a familiar, comforting routine at this point. Aziraphale was feeling lost and bereft and agoraphobic without the comforting presence of London and Earth around him like an old coat. Bickering with Crowley was homey. Their banter let him ignore the small strangenesses around them.

“This is it,” Sergeant Littlebottom announced, finally. They both looked up at the grand gates, behind which a tall, skinny, precipitous tower and several shorter, grander buildings sprawled.

“Right. Mis- Sergeant, if you would hold onto me?” Crowley said. Littlebottom wrapped both arms around Crowley’s proffered elbow and only let out a tiny whoop as they manifested their wings and lifted gently off in a whirlwind of scarlet and gold.

Hovering just over the gates, they got a better look at the sprawling lawns, manicured flowerbeds, and stately clock-tower that flanked the main buildings. A few solemn statues of large men (in pointy hats and bearing staffs) were sprinkled around near the footpaths.

“It looks familiar,” Crowley observed. “Not that I think I've seen it before, more that it looks like...”

“It looks the way a grand old University is supposed to look,” Aziraphale finished. “Exactly.”

“It's a bit creepy.”

“Well, you're the nearest we have to an expert on creepy,” Aziraphale said. “Any idea what we should be looking out for?”

“I don't know. Overly-smiley and immaculately-coiffed students who're secretly members of some sort of murder club?” Crowley suggested.

“Not likely,” the sergeant put in. “The Archchancellor has managed to put murder out of fashion among wizards; that's the sort of thing he'd notice. And wizards aren't much for that sort of look, so they'd rather stick out.”

“Well, that's me out of ideas,” Crowley said. “Where's the library?”

“That way.” Littlebottom nodded toward one building. “Can we land yet, please? Flying isn't really a dwarf thing.”

Aziraphale looked at her properly for the first time since they'd left the Watch House and saw that she was sweating. “Oh. Yes, of course.”

They elicited a few looks from the students (all-male, Aziraphale noted, and – as Littlebottom had indicated – largely scruffy, badly-washed, and haggard) queuing outside an examination hall, but it seemed mild interest in flying people carrying a dwarf over the wall was easily overwhelmed by the miasma of concentration and general exam terror.

Aziraphale looked around and plumbed his memory. “I expect the library is this way?” He gestured across the verdant lawn toward a massive edifice with a large rose window in greens and reds.

“Yes, actually.” The sergeant nodded toward one of the gravel paths. “How'd you know?”

“Oh, he's been at loads of universities,” Crowley said. “Let me do one.” She peered critically at a smaller building off to one side, newer-looking than the rest, as they strolled toward the library. “That's where they put the young researchers who they're afraid will blow holes in something, right?”

The bows in Littlebottom's beard twitched in amusement. “The High-Energy Magic Building. You must've met young wizards before. They aren't as bad as alchemists for blowing up regular things, but there's always the worry they'll rip through time or space or something.”

They entered without challenge from anyone, though a few young humans and dwarfs nodded to Littlebottom as they hurried by, clutching piles of laundry or dust cloths, or pushing food-trolleys. After a few turns, Littlebottom led them to a grand oak door and pointed them in.

Aziraphale stepped in, blinked a few times and looked up...and out... The towering rows of shelves couldn't possibly be contained in the building they'd just entered.

“Oh,” Crowley said, sounding slightly breathless herself.

The space wasn't quiet. It was full of the ruffling, rushing, hissing, thrumming heartbeat of the books (a sensation never heard on Earth, only felt deep in the soul). Books shifted of their own accord, sliding down shelves and flying between them, butting others out of the way or nudging them to the back of the shelf. A distant chorus of clinking failed to drown out a sudden snarl like ripping binding, making Aziraphale jump. A thump above their heads, like a leather sack full of pudding landing on the top of the shelf, and a long orange-furred arm swung down in front of him, holding a book that was squirming to get away. Aziraphale clasped it automatically, smoothing down the spine and tickling the front cover and it quietened and flopped open in his grasp.

“Ook,” said an approving voice.

He looked up to see the close-lipped smile of a large ape, and above it, large eyes regarding him thoughtfully.

“Librarian, Sir, these are strangers from another world,” Sergeant Littlebottom said, clutching her helmet in both hands. “He said 'Very good' to you,” she told Aziraphale.

“I run a bookshop,” Aziraphale said, offering a hand, which the Librarian shook gravely. “Love what you've done with the place,” he added. “Very spacious.”

“It could do with a coffee bar,” Crowley suggested, ignoring the ensuing “PFF!” of air from the orangutan. “And I hate to rush things, but Captain Angua said you might be able to help us get home.”

“Oook. Ook eek Eek Ook?”

“I could check the catalog?” Aziraphale guessed.

“No, sorry, he says, 'Do you know how you got here in the first place?'” Littlebottom translated.

“General banishing spell for outside forces, accidentally done on top of a ley line, just as a solar eclipse hit,” Crowley rattled off. “Perfect collision of mishaps, really, they didn't even know we were passing.”

The Librarian waved between the two of them. “Ook ik oook ook?”

“'You can't just poof back?'” Cheri translated.

“Not in my power-set,” Crowley said. “If we had some sort of physical or psychic connection to home, yes. And I imagine we'd go back to our respective bases if our bodies were destroyed, but that's really more of a last resort.”

Aziraphale shuddered. “Yes. I mean, it's awful being so far from home, but I've really only just started getting comfortable in this body. Let's leave that as a plan zed.”

The Librarian nodded and knuckled off down one of the shelves, pausing midway down the row to grab a book from the third shelf. Paging through it, he marked a spot with one leathery finger, and brought it back. He handed it to Aziraphale, took back the rogue book that Aziraphale had caught, then, without further ado, flapped his hands at the three of them, crowding them toward the exit.

“Oook Ook.”

“Apparently we've got to leave now,” Sergeant Littlebottom said, confused. “But how is that going to help?”

“Eeek ook ook oook.”

“Yes, all right, if you think they'll be any use.”

Aziraphale looked up from _Ye Alm_ ~~ _ack_~~ _anack of ye Skyes_. “Well?”

“He says 'Go to the High-Energy Magic Building right now.'” She shoved the other two gently out of the library. “Come on now, we don't want to irritate him.”

Crowley frowned. “The young, dangerously keen wizards are going to send us home? Hold on.”

“This says...” Aziraphale traced a sentence, mouthing through the haphazard spelling. “There's going to be a solar eclipse _here_ in about twelve minutes! I suppose the High-Energy Magic thing is built on a ley line?”

“Er, probably.” Littlebottom shrugged. “They do usually have some idea what they're doing with things like that.”

They retraced their steps and made it to the HEM Building with no more incident than Aziraphale tripping over a stray root while walking with his nose still in the book. Crowley kicked it until it sank back underground sulkily.

The door to this place was much less grand, and opened onto a room with a table, several folding chairs, a half pizza and large bag of crisps being shared between some pimply-faced, hairy (for humans) wizards in their mid-twenties.

“Yes, sorry, can I help you?” the oldest-looking one asked.

“Mister Stibbons, the Librarian sent us, you're to help get these two back to their own universe,” Sergeant Littlebottom said.

“We need the eclipse for it, so there's only a few minutes,” Crowley added. “We just need some sort of connection, but we can't make it on our own; we don't know where to look.”

The wizard squinted at them, then took off his glasses to polish them. “This is a bit sudden. You’re...Watch Sergeant…?”

“Cheri Littlebottom, Mister Stibbons.” The dwarf touched her helmet. “And we really do need to rush. The Librarian thinks you can help and they’ve got to do this during the eclipse. That’s in…”

“Five and a half minutes,” Aziraphale said.

Stibbons clenched what little jaw he had and nodded. “Well, never let it be said I didn’t step up promptly when the Librarian asked. Follow me. I can't do that alone, but I think Hex might be able to help.”

They went in. The other young wizards obligingly budged out of the way, giving them space to cluster around the machine in the corner. Probably a machine. It looked like Anathema's cottage had mated with an old vacuum-tube computer, picked up several of the Them's school science experiments, and borrowed a teddy bear from Madame Traci. There were ants and bees, crystals and mirrors, a Victrola horn, and a big brass lever.

“Hex, begin program,” Mr. Stibbons said into the horn. “Translocation link for two people using the ley line as a power source. Origin point: this room. Destination?” He looked at them, eyebrows raised.

“Broadwick Street Soho, London, England, Earth, Milky Way galaxy,” Crowley offered.

“21st December 2017, 1:32 p.m.,” Aziraphale added, glancing reluctantly up from the book.

The machine dropped a little hourglass on a spring down in front of them and printed out a strip of paper that said, _-Working-_

_+Extra-dimensional entities detected+_

_+Attempting to define source+_

_-Working-_

_-Working...-_

_+Local destination lock+_

_+Attempting to define source+_

_+Insufficient power+_

_+Program failed+_

_+Redo From Start+_

“Can you ask it to hook in to the eclipse?” Littlebottom asked, poking at the teddy bear.

“Don't do that,” Stibbons said, flapping a hand to shoo her away from the toy. “Yes, trying that now.” He spoke into the horn again. “Re-run program, power differential to be drawn from local astronomical events.”

_-Working-_

_+Power boost detected+_

_+Attempting power hookup+_

_-Working...-_

The room darkened. The paper began spitting out faster.

_+Hookup established+_

_+Source defined+_

_+Local destination lock+_

_+Extra-dimensional destination lock+_

_+Attempting connection+_

“I can feel that!” Crowley said. “Aziraphale, hold on!” She grabbed his jumper.

_+Connection established+_

The room blurred and began smelling of sulphur.

“Mister Aziraphale,” the sergeant called, her voice wavering in and out of focus. “The bo-”

Aziraphale realised and dropped the _Alm_ ~~ _ack_~~ _anack_. It spiraled out of his hand, the motion repeating like they were watching an unending zoetrope picture sequence of a book never quite hitting the ground.

And they hit the pavement and staggered. And they were home.

“Well,” Crowley said, staggering out of the way of a pedestrian and slumping against the wall. “That was ridiculous.”

Aziraphale nodded, winded. Then a persistent itch started down the back of his collar and he pulled off the jumper to shake sulphur dust out of it again. “Goodness, I hope the Librarian can get his book back.”

Crowley shrugged. “Tea?”

“ _Yes_.”

_-The End-_

_+Redo From Start?+_

_***_

1 Traditionally this would involve cutting the visitor’s purse-strings or selling them terrible souvenirs until they were pawning their shoes to try to afford a ticket home, but Carrot had been trying to introduce new ideas on that front.

 


End file.
